To Love hate
by Lilium-Flower
Summary: Anderson is Alucard's mortal enemy nut when he begins to feel lust towards him...what will happen


**Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing. I hate disclaimers!**

I hate him. More than hate him, my entire life is dedicated to ridding this world of him, and those like him. It is a mission I pride myself on and I refuse to be beaten.

Turn about being fair play, that hate is returned.

I feel it with each graze of his fingernails on my skin. Every nick of his teeth on my shoulder, I feel his temptation...And his restraint. The barest flicker of the long dead romantic in me would like to say that restraint is because he cares. The rest of me knows it is simply because he knows I would kill him before he ever got the chance. Even if it took every ounce of strength, even if I did it with my dying breath, I –would- kill him. Immortal or no, every man must die sooner or later, and it would give me no greater pleasure than to be the one to send him to hell.

It is said that there is a thin line between hate and love. I don't believe it. Love and hate bear no resemblance to each other. They share the same traits of obsessiveness, true, the same burning need. But to be more accurate hate is merely a hairs breadth away from lust. Raging, uncontrollable lust. And if lust is a sin then I'm drowning in the contempt of God.

I don't understand the power he seems to have over me or the way he manages to leave me so completely confused. I am not the kind of person who lets control slip out of my grasp. I am always perfectly focused, I have to be, I have no time for flights of fancy. There is no room in my life for anything other than the complete dedication to my mission. Nobody will stand between me and my goal. Nobody...

Except him.

I should have killed him the first time we met. I had every opportunity, even with the Hellsing woman there; he was distracted by his little girl. Despite every cool, controlled air he displays, he has that thin streak within him that urges him to protect and it runs especially deep with that one. I could have done it. a few more blades and the world would have been free from another monster. And I would still have my sanity.

That is, after all, what he has robbed me of, leaving me as a jumbled mess of a man only feigning togetherness. I'm sure he knows what he's done, despite the commendable job I've done keeping on the same mask I always have. He knows how much he has gotten to me. No matter how indifferent I act when we meet, no mater how many times I tell him I'll rip him to pieces, he knows my words are empty. His touch is like a drug, intoxicating an addiction I haven't the heart to break. Especially not now, as I lie here while he maps the path of every vein in my body. Sometimes with the soft trace of his fingertips, most often with his tongue. I swear he can taste the barest tinge of blood through my skin, that's why he spends so long over this. A twisted form of foreplay if ever I knew it. No that I complain, there's something almost reassuring about it. I don't even know how to explain why, perhaps because it shows a level of dedication that matches my own. Or perhaps because it is still that tired romantic in me that links it with some kind of devotion.

Devotion. Associated with worship on so many levels. And if this isn't the worship of a body then I'll eat my crucifix. He knows every part of me as well as I know it myself. Knows exactly what I need before I even realise I need it. Every caress is in precisely the right place. I often wonder if this isn't just another one of his abilities, perhaps he can take a journey into my mind as well as merge with the shadows or reform his body from a mutilated state. Or maybe he's just had a lot of practice. An eternal lifespan leaves plenty of time spare for such things I suppose.

I think too much at times like this. A fact which never fails to amaze me considering the combined effect of his actions leaves me as a gibbering bundle of nerve endings at the best of times. I do my best to control my reactions of course; I can't let him win after all. And if I give in completely, surrender my all then that is exactly what I will have let him do. And even if I know deep down that giving myself to him could bring me some insane amount of happiness, I also know that I will never do it. Pride is a funny thing.

As is hate; I know I hate him. I'd give everything to see him face down in the pool of his stolen blood. Our missions may be similar, we may fight for the same cause, but in the end, if we succeed, if we survive the madness, he will still be there, a monster to destroy so the world can be purified once again. I would kill him to finish it. But even with all the hate I don't think I would be the same without him. He's changed something in me. I can't even pinpoint when it happened. I don't think it even was some dramatic change, it's happening slowly; he's creeping steadily into my soul, corrupting me. I may be a fool for letting him, but he's a difficult man to ignore and turn away. The first night he made it into my bed is just a blur of memory. Just flashes of those blood-soaked eyes boring into mine. The barely remembered feeling of long wisps of hair twining around my limbs as if they had a separate life of their own, holding me down, forcing me to succumb. The haunting sounds of my own pleasure echoing in my ears.

I've lost count of the number of times he's done this to me now. Resistance, as they say, is futile. I can beat him, curse him, fight him, but the result is always the same. And when he is done, when he has forced every last choked cry from my lips, he looks at me. And with those crimson eyes, framed with thick lashes that give him an edge of dark, subtle beauty, he takes my breath away, sealing everything with the one and only kiss he ever graces me with during these evenings.

And then he is gone again. Fading into the darkness, leaving me satisfied and wanting all at the same time.

He hates me

I hate him in return

And I don't think I have ever loved hate so much.


End file.
